Evil Beast Boy's Fanciful Exploits in Perdition
by Karkadinn
Summary: The duplicate of Beast Boy made by Trigon has been up to some baaad, baaad things. But now he's been sent to the afterlife, and he definitely didn't make it to Heaven. Will his just deserts be too much for even a murderous sociopath like him to handle?


**Sadly, this story's title fell victim to my new arch-enemy: FFnet's title character limit. The full and proper title of this fanfic is, in fact:**

The Fanciful and Mildly Grotesque Exploits of Evil Beast Boy in Perdition

_"All the beauty on your face... what a waste_

_And all the demons deep within..._

_All you do, the front so tough, it's not enough_

_To hide the Hell you're living in..."_

_-Just the Way, Frendamyne_

Considering that his very existence was the result of demonic magic, Beast Boy's wickeder, grayer, red-glowing-eyes-er duplicate would have expected Hell to be not too uncomfortable a place to be hanging in.

Or at least he'd thought it would be _interesting_.

But no.

Noooooooooooooo.

He was, in fact, going to spend eternity on the _shore_ of the lake of fire, because he was stuck waiting in line!

It wasn't fair that he couldn't use his powers in Hell.

It wasn't fair that he couldn't kill anyone, 'cause everyone was already dead, except maybe _him_, and he was iffy on that last point.

It wasn't fair that he could strike fear into the hearts of precisely _no one_, not even random jerkfaces he would have had soiling their pants in the real world, not even when he announced himself as the Great and Terrible Trickster, Ravager of Women, Slayer of Assholes Who Think Thin Toilet Paper Is A Good Idea, and General All-Around Badass.

It wasn't fair that everything in Hell so far appeared to be either gray, off-white, or _pastel_.

Mother.

Fucking.

_PASTEL_.

When the strains of faint but infinitely familiar music reached his pointy ears, he'd about had it.

"Elevator music?! What the FUCK?! What kinda passive-aggressive bullshit IS this?!" he screeched, trying to strangle the person in front of him, simply because she was there and he wanted to kill something even though he _knew_ he couldn't. "Where's the giant leeches sucking fluids out of eyeballs, the freaky imps prying people's toenails off, the torture devices, the fire and giant fork thingies?!"

"Will you quiet down? Some of us are trying to do crossword puzzles."

Incredulity climbing, Trickster leaned over to find the source of the annoyingly condescending, yogurt-smooth voice. A few loops ahead, past a couple turns of the omnipresent red velvet rope, he found the guy.

"Oh my God, _Slade_, is that _you_?"

The supervillain was, in fact, holding up a newspaper and trying to finish a crossword puzzle, as if he were here of his own free will and just passing the time enjoyably. Trickster immediately hated him. Slade wasn't supposed to be doing non-supervillainy things where other people could _see_ him! It ruined the supervillainy mystique! Didn't that stupid bastard know _anything_?!

"Are you seriously standing in line just waiting like some random asshole off the street? Seriously? All your badassery and you can't even hop the velvet fuckin' rope? Dude, LOOK at me when I'm talking to you, asswipe!"

The newspaper came down with a sigh. "I suppose I'm not going to get this done until you've satisfied your curiosity, am I. No matter, I can't think of a ten-letter word for Batman anyway. Is there something you wanted, little boy?"

With a screaming snarl of rage, Trickster launched himself through a dozen people, grabbed a sharp-looking paperweight from a nearby magazine table, and started frantically stabbing Slade in the chest with it. It didn't kill Slade, or even, apparently, _hurt_ him, but it _did_ make a nice, satisfying schlocky sound. "LITTLE BOY?! FUCK YOU, MAN! I'M _EVIL_! I DESERVE RESPECT!" Schlock schlock schlock schlock.

"Be that as it may, child, you're still stuck in this interminable waiting room with the rest of us, so you may as well learn to tolerate it and stop wasting your trivial supply of stamina."

The guy was totally infuriating even when just as helpless as _he_ was. "I hope the first thing they do to you is pull out your tongue. You'd think dying woulda made you a little more fucking humble."

Slade's disgustingly broad, muscular. shoulders rippled in a shrug. "I saw no reason to alter my demeanour after my first death, why should I decide to do so with a second one? I seem to be consistently brought low by trivialities so insignificant that I fail to mount the proper negligible defenses necessary. Willful teenage girls, microbe-based assaults... ah, perhaps I chose the wrong area to operate in. Superman would be a much more fitting level of opponent for one of my abilities."

"You are so _full_ of yourself. This is why everyone hates you!"

"My butler is quite fond of me, actually. And somehow I doubt someone such as yourself... a magical construct of the original Beast Boy, I assume? Has very many friends either."

"You have a butler?"

"Are you done wasting my time?"

"ARGH!" Schlock schlock schlock schlock schlock! He had to stab Slade's back now, since the guy wasn't even _looking_ at him anymore. He _hated_ being ignored!

"You're just like that bitch, Raven!" he hissed. "Always acting like you're hot shit! Well, I'm better than you! In fact, I'm better than _all_ of you!" he yelled, making a sweeping gesture over the crowd. "Yeah, that's right! The rest of you lamers are here 'cause you got _sent_ here, 'cause you died or something, but not ME. I _chose_ to be here, that's just how badass I am!"

Scornful laughter peppered him from all sides. It was like being at school again.

"We _all_ _chose_ to come here, man," one of the laughers put in. "And you better get back in your spot 'fore they see you're cutting or you'll be in trouble. Most sinful guys up front, least sinful at back, that's how it is."

He'd been nowhere _near_ the front. This was an outrage! _Slade_ was ahead of him! "Look, assholes," he growled through gritted teeth, "I _belong_ up front, fuck, I should be right at the top of the line! I don't know who you think you're talking to, but I was made by demony magic out of all the repressed evil junk in someone's head, specifically to hurt people! I tore off my weak side's arm! I dated a girl just so I could tear her to itty-bitty pieces while singing along to Johnny Cash! I raped someone till she bled and made her think it was her own fault! I'm evil incarnate, bitches, and as soon as I get my powers back I'm gonna squish you all like ants at a picnic!"

"It sounds like you should be about half a mile back, sir," a nasal-voiced guy with thick nerd glasses said. "Most of the rapists are over _there_." He pointed far into the distance. "Except for the wartime soldier rapists, they're about three minutes walking distance to the left of the main group."

"Yeah? What the hell did _you_ do to get three places in front of _Slade_, tough guy?" He poked the geek in the chest roughly.

"I was a lawyer for the Recording Industry Association of America. I sued people for downloading mp3s despite knowing that the defendants didn't have the financing to defend themselves in court, forcing them to pay large settlement fees."

"Oh. Oh, wow. Dude. Yeah, okay, I guess you _do_ belong up here. But still! How many crazy mass murderers do you know, huh?! Give me some fucking credit!"

"Oh, you're a _mass_ murderer?" Mr. Nerd asked interestedly. "You didn't say. How many people have you killed?"

"Uh... okay, just two people, but I was gonna kill a _lot_ more, I swear!"

"Mmm, yes, they all say that. Not that I'm saying you're being untruthful," he went on hastily, seeing Trickster's irate expression. "It's just that, well, the Big Guy down _there_," he pointed a thumb downward with a furtive look, "seems to prefer, well, less _flashy_ evil. Because flashy evil gets people caught ever so quickly... but the little sins, they just keep going and going and poisoning plenty of lives until the sinner dies of old age. You'll notice that most of the supervillain sorts are further back... I'm not sure what your friend Mr. Slade did to get a bit further up, but even he isn't near the front, as you can tell."

Trickster's brain was churning with new ideas it didn't like much. He tongued a fang, wondering if he could still hurt _himself_ if not other people. Ow! Well, that answered that. "Less flashy evil? But... but that's the whole _point_! Rape! Maim! Murder! Destroy! Hitler, Genghis Fhan, Darth Vader!"

"Genghis _Khan_, actually," Mr. Nerd corrected. "Oh, and if you're interested in Hitler, he's a few miles back... very interesting fellow, actually... although now that I think of it, it probably wouldn't be a terribly good course of action, since you appear to be extremely, ah, non-white. Not that I have anything against gray-skinned people myself, of course!"

"If I had my powers I could _make_ myself white," Trickster grumbled. "This is dumb. _Hitler's_ still here?! In the _back_?! I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life waiting for this stupid line to move! What kind of dumb jerks are in front anyway?!"

"Why don't you go see for yourself? I would not ordinarily recommend it... you might make _them_ angry, but people as flamboyant as yourself usually do need to see at least once to accept it..."

"Fine, I will!"

And to the front he went, taking out his frustration by being as rude as possible, shoving, pushing, biting, elbowing, kicking and swearing at every possible opportunity. The closer he got to the front, though, the less people seemed to care. It pissed him off even more.

It took _way_ too long. But at last, wheezing from exhaustion, he could see the very front of the line! This was it. This was where the most evil, nasty, misery-mongering people in all existence hung out. This was where he belonged.

"_Excuse_ me?" a valleygirlish voice asked him, sounding offended. "Where do you get off cutting ahead like that? Get back in your spot, dork."

Trickster exercised something totally foreign to him: self-restraint. Counted to ten. Turned around slowly. And thought of some polite words to say, while his very, very blank face strained to snarl. There was no point in getting mad. It'd only kick up a fuss when all he wanted to do was get a question answered.

"'Scuse me, but can you tell me what kind of evil things you did to get up here?"

The teenager's face twisted in confusion before settling down into scorn. She popped a bubblegum bubble in his face, and a small fragment of the gum stuck to his fur. "Huh? Oh, I dunno. Whatever. I was just trying to have a good time, y'know? Kacked when some asshole swerved in front of me when I was going home from a party." She had beer on her breath and a faint trace of white powder underneath her nose. "Now get _away_ from me, nerd, you smell gross."

"Totally," another teenage girl next to her agreed with a nod. "Do you think he, like, ever _bathes_? Backers shouldn't be trying to screw up the front, it's just pathetic. You know the rules! My God, look at that pimple," she suddenly stated irrelevantly, giggling. Everyone nearby joined in.

"Oh, yeah, it's huge!"

"You'd think we wouldn't be able to see it with all that nasty rank fur and everything, but it's just _that_ big..."

"Eww, it's all greasy and swollen!"

Well, so much for being calm. "FUCK YOU! I'M GONNA TEAR YOUR FACE OFF, YOU LYING WHORE! I DO _NOT_ HAVE A FUCKING PIMPLE!"

"Oh yeah?" A compact flipped out, tiny mirror pointed at him.

It was true. He hadn't remembered having a pimple _before_ going to Hell... and if he'd ever _had_ one he wouldn't have worried since he could've just morphed it away... but somehow or other, he had one _now_, and he couldn't morph!

"Yeah, well, I'm still gonna tear your-" he blustered snarlingly, before a set of fingers clamped down on his shoulder so hard they _hurt_.

He looked up at a gentleman (it was the kind of guy you could _only_ think of as a gentleman... like the word'd been made for that kind of person) in a faded blue suit and a bow tie, with thin glasses with that weird string on them, and a very very intense, serious face. "Excuse me, sir, is there a problem?" It was the kind of voice that told you instantly you were in big trouble, you worthless maggot, in the most polite way possible. The kind of voice that said if it had noticed you, you were wasting its time. The feeling of being back in school was painfully enhanced.

He fought off the feeling as best he could. Too bad he couldn't fight off that stupid hand that was pinching him down to his bone. He didn't have a lot of padding, dammit! "_Yeah_, there's a problem. These fuckers over here-"

"Why aren't you in your place?" the man interrupted.

"Because I don't _wanna_ be, and what're you gonna-"

"Lower your voice, young man."

"FUCK Y-ARGH!" The hand had tightened like iron. He was probably bruising.

"When I tell you to lower your voice, you will lower your voice, do you understand? _Do you understand_?" the man repeated after only getting a whimper in reply the first time. Giggles opened up all around like flowers in a sunny field. The man didn't seem to notice, or care.

"I... understand," Trickster grunted out, making plans to find a way to murder the already dead man in deliciously slow and painful ways in the future.

"Look at me when you talk to me."

"Fine, I'm _looking_ at you, are you _happy_ now?"

"The correct way to ask that question is, 'Are you happy now, _sir_?'"

Trickster glowered silently, but wasn't allowed to do so for long, because the man started hauling him back through the line effortlessly, not even bothering to shift his grip to something that would _hurt_ less.

"I have been given a minor degree of autonomy to deal with tedious rebels without causes like _you_," the man said while dragging him, totally ignoring Trickster's increasingly violent and profane protests. "Every newbie thinks they're special, but guess what, you're not. The system is in place for a reason. Congratulations on wasting everyone's time by acting like a complete idiot. In my day, spoiled brats like you would be caned, so you can count yourself lucky that I'm not allowed to deal out proper physical disciplinary measures without special dispensation! And believe it or not, you are _not_ worth the effort of trouble the authorities over to discipline you properly. So for now, I'm going to put you back where you belong and trust that you've learned your lesson and will behave like a good little boy. Do you think you can do that?"

He was half-shoved, half-thrown back into the spot he'd originally started in. The man had traversed the whole distance way quicker than _he_ had, and didn't even look out of breath! "I'm not a kid-"

"Then stop acting like one. The adults here would like to get on with their lives without interruptions from more immature people. And don't think that further transgressions on your part will go unnoticed. I'll be keeping an eye on you, young man."

"My name is-"

"Did I _ask_ you for your name? Do you think it _matters_ what your name is? I know it must be hard for someone as retarded in social functions as yourself to adapt to a civilized environment, but please abandon that delusion as soon as you can." And then he walked off, without even looking back or saying any kind of goodbye. Trickster watched the man's blue-clad back with mounting fury.

He had been made by a demon. Created out of every little thought Beast Boy had never spoke aloud, and there was a surprisingly large amount of them. Given existence for the sole purpose of hurting people, and fulfilling that purpose gladly, tormenting those who had been his weaker self's only real friends in life. Abandoning all hope of friendship or comradery or love for making enemies and defeating them in the most gory, angst-ridden ways possible. Devoting himself to pure destruction and chaos, toppling everything that society thought was worth a damn.

"But... I'M _EVIL_, DAMMIT!" he screamed finally, punching at the air, gnashing his teeth. "LOOK AT ME! I'M A FREAK OF NATURE AND I ACT LIKE IT! I RAPED ONE OF MY TEAMMATES! I KILLED MY GIRLFRIEND! I'M _EVIL_!"

The crowd, startled at first, quickly became increasingly disinterested.

"IF THIS WERE THE REAL WORLD I'D HAVE YOUR GUTS STRUNG OUT LIKE TOILET PAPER ON A HOUSE! I'M A COLD-BLOODED KILLER WITH A HEART FULL OF HATE! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU ALL! WHEN I'VE GOT MY POWERS BACK I'LL EAT YOUR FUCKING _SOULS_! YOU'LL BEG FOR ME TO LET YOU DIE! I'M MOTHERFUCKING EVIL!"

No one was even listening anymore. The guy in front of him put on the headphones to a walkman to drown him out.

Trickster panted.

He glared.

He shook with hate.

"I _am_," he half-whispered, desperate for someone, _anyone_, to believe him, and be scared, or hateful, or at least a little impressed.

And then, slowly, very slowly, he sank down to the cold marble floor, wrapped his arms around his knees, and began to cry.

No one cared.


End file.
